For Goodness Sake
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Holmes is sick. He refuses to admit it. Watson's a doctor. Of course he notices. Hilarity and fluff ensue. Will be a multi!chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**For Goodness Sake**

**1**

"Holmes, what _is_ that repugnant smell?" Watson called, hooking his fingers around the brim of his hat to pull it off.

"I believe it is the awkward combination of cough syrup, tobacco vapours, and the lingering after-effects of vomit consisting of last night's late night dinner of an apple, meat loaf, and onion soup."

Holmes's voice was quite steady, but it was quiet, hoarse. He sounded strained to get the words out, even though he seemed determined to undermine the effects of whatever it was that was ailing him this time.

"And why, pray tell," Watson said, slipping his jacket off, "does the flat smell of cough syrup, tobacco, and vomit?" He looked towards the fireplace, where Holmes was fretting away over something on the mantlepiece.

"I've just solved a year old case, my dear mother hen. The copious amounts of tobacco that I've consumed in the process is no mean feat, but it is entirely worth it."

"That doesn't explain the rather unpleasant odour of cough syrup and vomit." Watson paused, looking closer into the sitting room. "Holmes?"

"Mm?"

"Are you feeling rather well?"

"I've just solved a case, old boy. There is certain elation and unpleasantry in every solving of a case."

"No, Holmes. I'm inquiring on your physical health, not your mental state." Watson threw his coat and hat down on the sofa, walking up to Holmes. "I've known your mental health has been deteriorating for years," he muttered in an off-hand tone, clearly a joke but also masking the slight concern starting to prickle underneath his skin. His doctor's intuition had started to kick in.

"I am fit as a fiddle, my dear Watson. Whyever would you say differently?"

"Because, Holmes," Watson said, gripping Holmes's arm and turning him to face him. "You are pale, your eyes are watery and red, your nose is running. The flat quite apparently smells of vomit and there can only be one source." He raised a hand as Holmes opened his mouth to interject. "Don't tell me that you got into a spot of bad something; with the things you ingest on a normal basis, there is officially nothing quote-unquote bad for you to get into. You also claim that the other addition to the stench in this flat is cough syrup and, unless you were once again producing some heinous experiment, I am going to assume that you were using it for its intended, medical purpose. Therefore, you have a cough."

"Well done, Doctor-"

"The fact that you would have resorted to cough syrup at all indicates that you probably are really rather unwell, unless, of course, as mentioned before, you are producing another disturbing experiment on yourself. Tell me, Holmes, is the cough syrup an experiment?"

"You've caught me." Holmes held his hands up. "I have a cough."

"And you've been vomiting."

"Let's not focus on my weaker points, shall we?" Holmes clapped his hands on Watson's shoulders and squeezed briefly, smiling. It was a weak smile. Holmes released Watson before slinking away.

"Holmes, as your doctor, I insist that you sit down."

"Whatever for?"

"So I can find out what's wrong with you!"

"There's absolutely nothing wrong with me. Like I said, fit as a fiddle."

"A fiddle with a cold?" Watson replied dryly, looking across the room as Holmes sank into his chair.

"Don't be absurd, Watson. I have no cold. What dastardly things."

"Actually," Watson said, crossing the room to follow Holmes, "if you're vomiting, it very well may be the flu."

"Honestly, Watson, this is beneath you. You can't honestly believe that _I_-" Watson pressed his hand against Holmes's forehead, efficiently cutting off the detective's speech.

"To be frank, Holmes, I can and I do. You have a fever."

"Just been by the fire."

"Has your forehead been in the grate?"

"Now that you mention it-"

"I'll not stand here and let you try to talk me out of it. I _am_ a doctor, Holmes, and not only that, but I am _your_ doctor. Only fools argue with their doctors."

"Perhaps it is you with the brain haze, Watson. I believe you've just insinuated that I, Sherlock Holmes, am a fool."

"If I were to list all of the foolish things that you've done, I would never have time to step outside of Baker Street again. Now, take some medicine and go to bed, Holmes."

"The sun's only just setting, it's hardly a suitable time for a lounge-about."

"Says the one who lounges about on the floor for up to three weeks. Bed, Holmes."

Holmes stood. "Oh, I _will_ go to bed, Watson. But take note: it is simply for a lack of case and nothing else! Not because of your... medical riff-raff."

"Medical riff-raff... Yes, Holmes. My concern for your fever-raging self is simply riff-raff. Off you go, to bed."

"Yes, thank you, I shall." Holmes started towards the door. He paused halfway before melting away from his path, quickly making a grab for the trash bin before he was violently sick.

Watson watched him warily for a moment, concern and perhaps just the smallest bit of satisfaction, for he was correct, Holmes was sick, on his face. Holmes straightened up after a moment, placing the bin back in the proper place.

"Don't say it, Watson. It's merely food poisoning."

"We've had the same meals."

"Totally irrelevant."

"Is it?"

"I declare so."

"Bed, Holmes," Watson reminded sternly, a fleeting smile gracing his lips.

* * *

_**Sherlock Holmes**_** multi!chapter sick!fic! I should have done this ages ago. It's so difficult to get into Holmes and Watson's mindset when I'm always stuck in Sherlock and John (****_Sherlock_****). **

**Not much of a point of view in this chapter, really, but it will be told in Watson's POV. Hopefully updates will be quick; I'm writing ideas as I imagine them, so I have a ton of stories that I should be working on, and it just depends on my mood as to which one I work on.**

**Reviews are appreciated! Thank you!**


	2. Chapter 2

"Holmes, for goodness sake!"

Watson had trudged into Holmes's untidy bedroom, expecting to see Holmes sprawled out in bed and possibly already asleep, but instead he found Holmes rummaging through the chest at the end of his bed.

"Watson, I've just remembered. I started an experiment three weeks ago."

"And how does you tearing through your bed chest tie into this?" Watson asked patiently, leaning against the doorway.

"I set it in the bottom, covered up by that heinous blanket that Mrs. Hudson gave you for Christmas."

Watson sighed. "Go to bed, Holmes."

"I mustn't, Watson. This experiment is important."

Watson crossed the room, swinging the chest top down. Holmes removed his hands just mere seconds before he would have gotten them caught. He looked up at him, his eyes red and his nose running. Somehow, there was still an indignant look on the consulting detective's face.

"If that experiment has been there for three weeks, I can safely say that it is not primed to explode; therefore, it can wait another day or so for your flu to terminate."

Holmes stood, looking critically down at Watson. "I must say, doctor, I don't appreciate your pushiness. Are you this demanding with all of your patients?"

"All of my patients are not Sherlock Holmes," Watson reminded, gripping Holmes's shoulders and guiding him towards the bed.

"Good, that," Holmes muttered, crawling lazily into his bed. "How distracting my practice would be with two Holmes."

"I shudder to entertain the thought."

"Oh, are you still here?" Holmes asked, dropping face-first into his crumpled pillow. "I would have thought I was supposed to rest, old boy."

"You can rest, and you will rest, but first I really must insist on a temperature reading."

"Take your infernal medical equipment out of my sight, Watson. It's sickening."

"Turn over, Holmes."

With a great sigh, Holmes rolled over onto his back. Watson gave him a sardonic smile before handing him the thermometer.

"Watson, if I were to break this, the mercury inside would be of... utmost value to me," he said conversationally, eyeing the thermometer.

"Seeing as how the thermometer itself is of utmost importance to me, I would not highly suggest it, Holmes."

Holmes gave another sigh, slipping the thermometer between his lips.

Watson nodded to himself. While Holmes was plagued by the inability to speak, he picked up his stethoscope. While Holmes gave him a depraving look, Watson simply placed the buds into his ears and the disc on Holmes's chest.

"Deep breaths, if you would be so kind."

Holmes resolutely didn't breathe. Watson looked at him, finding the man plugging his nose.

"Are you really holding your breath, Holmes?"

Seeing as how Holmes couldn't answer, Watson didn't receive a response. However, as it was obvious, he just sighed a bit impatiently and waited for the inevitable moment where Holmes would _have_ to continue breathing.

That moment coincided with the thermometer reading.

"Thirty-nine point six..." Watson read aloud, peering at the silver lining before looking down at Holmes. "Do you finally accept that you're sick now?"

"I don't have to accept anything," Holmes replied carelessly.

"Fine. Be ridiculous. Are you going to be taking a deep breath anytime soon or shall I just crack on with my assessment?"

Holmes took a deep breath.

Watson smiled. "Thank you, Holmes."

"This is endlessly unnecessary, Watson. If I am at all sick, it's with a mild touch of the common cold. There is really no need for your... concern." He said the latter with a sneer, a clear indication that emotion was not in his agenda.

"Quite the contrary, Holmes. Your fever and your vomiting are clear signs that it _isn't_ just a 'mild touch' of the common cold." He pulled away. "But, at least your breathing and heart seems to be fine. Shall I make you some willow tea?"

"I don't want any of that medical tea, Watson. It has a distinctly awful taste."

"You drink formaldehyde."

"It doesn't have a distinctly awful taste."

"That's because you've probably built up a tolerance..." Watson muttered, turning away. "That, or you've burnt your taste buds off."

"No. No, that's not possible. Dinner at the Royale is as delectable as ever."

"I'm going to make you willow tea."

"My dear Watson, your companionship is, as they say, irreplaceable. Making me drink odious tea and bothering me with abhorrent medical procedures."

Watson smiled, pausing in the doorway. "Whatever would you do without me, Holmes?"

* * *

**He'd be lost without his Boswell.**

**Reviews are love. Thanks!**


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